


The Secret Orchard

by Snowgrouse



Series: Of Roses Unfurling [3]
Category: Original Work, Thief of Bagdad (1940), كتاب ألف ليلة وليلة | Kitaab 'alf layla wa-layla | One Thousand and One Nights
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Anal-oral, Androgynous male character, Ass to Mouth, BDSM, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Byzantinebatch, Culture with casual male bisexuality, Cunnilingus, Dark Het, Dirty Talk, Dominant Male Character, Epistolary, Established Relationship, F/M, Fellatio, Genital Shaving, Hair-pulling, Held Down, Heroine/Villain, Heterosexual Anal Sex (female receiving), Heterosexual Anal Sex (male receiving), Light BDSM, Love Letters, M/M, Married Couple, Middle Ages, Muslim Character(s), OC played by Benedict Cumberbatch (the Byzantine), Oral Sex, Pegging, Period Attitudes Towards Sexuality and Gender, Persia, Prostate Milking, Queer Het, Rimming, Romance, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Slavery, Squirting, Submissive Female Character, Tenderness, The Golden Age of Islam, The Thousand And One Nights - Freeform, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, Wall Sex, heterosexual anal sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 18:33:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowgrouse/pseuds/Snowgrouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Know that I await your tender kisses; know that I await the sweet safety of your embrace, but know that I also await <b>him.</b> Oh, yes, I await him. I have missed his feline steps in our bedchamber, have missed his shadow falling over me, have missed his teeth sinking into my shoulder as he takes me without mercy. He is everything I feared about my old witch-suitor; he is everything that makes my heart leap in exquisite terror still. He is my dark prince in the mirror, the shadow in my garden, the one whose gaze was always upon me like an angel's--or a devil's. I have not known him for a long time. Tell me the wait is over. Tell me tomorrow I shall meet him again.</i>
</p><p>Jaffar and Yassamin are separated for weeks and correspond through a series of erotic love letters. Once they are finally reunited, their mutual longing has grown so great it is not  easily sated. Both desire to possess the other to the fullest, to the point where taboos and mores no  longer matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret Orchard

**Author's Note:**

> Third part of the [Of Roses Unfurling series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/25989); won't make much sense if you haven't read the first two parts. P.S. guest starring Benedict Cumberbatch as the Byzantine ambassador. He gets a bigger role in the next part:).

My love,

You were supposed to be home two days ago. Is this to be like the last time? When the Byzantine delegates delayed negotiations out of spite and you were kept from me for weeks? Even if I know but a few miles separate us, that only serves to frustrate me further. To know you are but half an hour's journey away, and to be only allowed to reach you through these letters is maddening. Are the Byzantines forbidden from bringing their wives, too, I wonder? 

Yes, I know I sound like I am nagging. But I cannot help it. Know that I am frustrated at our situation, not at you, for I know you would rather be here.

Beloved, I miss you. I miss your voice. I miss the sound of your footsteps in the corridor, whispering over the carpet as you enter our bedroom. The way you always reach out to hold me from behind, the way you wrap your hands about my waist. The way you sigh against my hair as I lean back in your arms, the way I can tell you are smiling even before I see your face.

What am I to do without you; how am I to spend my days when you are not here?

***

My dearest,

Write to me. At least the short distance allows for us to correspond several times a day; enough for plenty of missives to interrupt the tedium of our days. The Lord knows I need interruptions right now, for I am as bored as you are. At least you don't have to spend your days dealing with emirs, viziers and ambassadors in ever-increasing flavours of dullness. I would much rather be there, lie in your arms and listen to those daydreams you have of me. For I daydream of you, too. Know that.

Tell me of your daydreams, my child, and I will tell you of mine. Distance has made many new such dreams spring up in my imagination, each one more elaborate than the ones that preceded it. Going by your letter, the same is true of you, so I am sure you understand. You never leave my thoughts. Every moment I am allowed out of the Diwan, I close my eyes and think of your kisses, of your touches, weave new dreams to wrap around myself for comfort. Whenever I stretch out upon my bed, I stay awake long into the night and think not of the day's proceedings, but of all the ways in which I could be making love to you instead.

Sometimes, I can almost feel you; so great is my longing. I close my eyes and feel the silk of your hair underneath my hands, taste the tartness of your pomegranate lip-paint, hear your laughter as I surprise you with a tickle. But when I reach out to pull you close, you are not there, and suddenly I understand all those stories of kings who gave up their kingdoms for the sake of love. 

As you can see from these stains, the tears have arrived, and I must quit writing in order to compose myself for the coming day. But write to me, beloved. Don't hold back; let us give our spymasters something that's truly worth reading.

***

Beloved husband,

Know that I have kissed each and every one of your tears as I've read your letter over and over. Imagine me kissing those tears from your cheeks, imagine me holding you in my arms. For I have dreamt the same dreams: lying beside you, the brush of your moustache against my lips when you nuzzle me before a kiss. That little nuzzle you always give, the one that breaks my heart. That's the kiss I dream of, but I would lie if I said I did not dream of other, fiercer ones, too. The way you take my mouth when you are in one of your moods, your teeth clashing against mine, your tongue sliding into my mouth as you rock yourself inside of me. I dream of long summer afternoons, our bodies plastered together with sweat, those moments when we have made love for so long we can but undulate lazily against each other, having exhausted ourselves so utterly.

The longer I have to spend time apart from you, the more I want to take you. Yes, _take_ you, my sweet Jaffar. The way I have but a few times, when I have made you tremble and shake underneath my kisses. I want you, all of you, want to devour you and take you into myself the way you've taken me into your core. Imagine, beloved, lying down on our bed, on one of those hot summer days, and imagine me telling you not to move, and yourself obeying. Imagine yourself splayed, pinned, my nails sharp in the flesh of your arms as I lower myself onto your cock. For my part, I am imagining the look in your eyes, the rare surrender in them, and I'm shivering as I write this: see how all my letters are askew? 

Can you smell me? I had to pause to adjust my shalwars, had to rub myself a little. For I thought of other things I could do to you as you laid underneath me. How you must ache with need, as I ache; how full you must be from weeks of abstinence, how you would spill and spill into my mouth as I took you with it. And I would take you not just once, but many times: until you were completely empty, until you grew soft in my mouth, until I had swallowed every last drop of your love.

And as you would lie there, every limb slack from our love-play, I would do what I have always wanted to do, but have never dared ask for. Do you know what I would do, husband? 

I would spread your legs, bend down between them and gift you with the kiss only Nuwas dares write about. And I would not stop until tears were streaming down your temples, until you would come undone once more, until you would fall asleep in the circle of my arms.

Sleep well tonight, beloved. 

***

My sweetest wife,

I am starting to regret my request. After reading--and yes, _inhaling_ \--the sweetness of your letter last night, I barely slept. And the following day, your dream would not leave my mind: I kept seeing your face, smiling between my legs--oh, how you would have laughed had you seen me tuck my robes around myself to disguise my state from my guests! What a fool you've made me into, again, my sweet Yassamin, and how willingly I crumble. And yet, I must apologise for the delay in my response. I would have written back sooner, but was held back because of certain events--which I must now relate to you in detail.

Let me tell you about the Byzantine envoy. He is a peculiar man, but possessed of a perverse sort of charm. He's a man almost as tall and as thin as I, with an extraordinarily fair complexion--his copper-coloured hair frames a long, lean face at odd angles; I found myself thinking I've owned mares more beautiful. Yet there was something in him that drew me to him; who knows, perhaps I saw something of myself in him, a young vizier with the gangliness of youth still clinging to him, still forging a career for himself in the art of statecraft. Or perhaps it was the innate sensuality I spied in his countenance, particularly in his mouth, hinting of debauchery. 

You see, his lips are full, fuller than most women's, and through them, he speaks with a very refined and deep voice, with no trace of an accent. He is very educated for a Christian--he even knows and enjoys our poetry, and even recited a few of his favourite verses to me in most perfect Arabic, which pleased my ears greatly. All in all, I found him an intelligent, fascinating man, and we got along immediately. He even apologised about his fellow delegates and their tactics, and seemed as frustrated and as weary as I was, locked up in the palace as we were.

And here it is that I must apologise to you, my darling, as I know it is inappropriate to talk of one's womenfolk to strangers. But as he finished reciting a poem--one I knew was your favourite, one you had once whispered to me during our courtship--I was possessed of a terrible melancholy and told him I missed my wife, and how dearly I loved her. We had enjoyed a few cups of wine by then, and in my frustration, I even blurted out how much I missed our marriage bed, having had to endure without your caresses for two whole weeks.

And it was then that he clapped a brotherly hand on my shoulder, and in that deep, resonant voice of his, told me he knew just the thing. He invited me to visit him in his quarters, and promised me he would show me something that would take my mind off woman matters.

Now, my love, you know I am not an innocent. In Harun's court, there was hardly a rake greater than Jaffar ibn Yahya, lover of girls and boys and wine. I knew exactly what I was getting myself into, and knew I couldn't possibly refuse his invitation--it would have been bad manners, and above all, bad diplomacy. Besides, I was intrigued. It might have been the wine, it might have been his voice, it might have been the state of yearning my body was under--but I found myself following him to his bedchamber. 

And what I experienced there made me feel like the chastest man that ever lived. For at the foot of the Byzantine's bed lay the prettiest thing: a boy who could not have been more than sixteen, seventeen, with the pale and black-haired complexion characteristic of slaves from the Caucasus. He smiled in delight when his master woke him with a kiss, with the fervent, innocent, adoring love only a youth can have. For even as he stripped and started to caress his master, there was a genuinely heartbreaking longing to those caresses, a worshipful focus in his eyes as he offered his body for his master's pleasure.

And can you imagine it? I, the former king of all libertines--I sat back on the bed, fully clothed, my prick barely stirring as I watched the play! For weeks, my body had not been touched by a loving hand, and yet I lay there, sipping my wine and all I could think of was _you._ The boy's long black curls might as well have been yours, his round white buttocks yours the day you begged for me to take you like a boy--oh, that night in our tent was all I could think of. Again, I must ask for your forgiveness, for I must have been cursing you under my breath for rendering me this way, so astonished was I at my own reaction. But for the sake of honesty, I must admit all this, as I am sure you will derive some pleasure from the knowledge, my demoness. 

And for the sake of honesty, I must also mention that the play before me was quite pleasing to me indeed, even if I did not fully participate in it myself. The boy was remarkably gifted with his body, twisting and turning it in ways I had not even thought possible, in a mixture of dance and lovemaking. He was not a mere plaything to be enjoyed--in fact, he was quite aware of his own beauty, cocky as a tavern lad, and displayed himself with an aggressive boldness. In his behaviour, I could see why our host had said the boy would make one forget about other lovers, simply because in his youthful vanity, the boy was clearly convinced nobody could--or should--resist him. He demanded one's attention, demanded a worship of his beauty, and teased his master with wicked glances and soft touches, always withdrawing at the end of each caress, seeing what he could get away with. At one point, I was quite sure my host would soon give him a box on the ear, to be so shamed in the presence of his shah, kneeling with his prick wet and ready and hard, as the boy withdrew once more. 

But it was towards the poor shah the boy withdrew towards. Yes, me. Astonished, I watched as he dropped onto all fours and offered me his behind. He sucked on a finger, two, and I could feel my cock stirring a little as he pushed them inside of himself, spreading his pink little hole for me, showing me how he had prepared himself. I must confess I was taken aback, for not a single lover or slave had offered himself to me this blatantly. His anus was grotesque in itself, yet beautiful--the rim of it raised, a dark pink, a little swollen from frequent sodomy. It was a shocking sight upon someone so young, someone so seemingly innocent. And yet I knew how youths of his kind were exactly the sort to attract the attentions of older men. I, too, had been one of those lads, had had patrons underneath whom I had served in exchange for books and honours. Some had been gentle, some brutal, wanting to leave their mark on me, to see how utterly they could debauch someone they thought innocent. And in that moment, gazing upon the boy's swollen slit, I remembered one of those lovers, remembered what he had done to me. Every night, he'd stretched me to the point of pain with his fingers and his cock, deliberate in his cruelty; and after, he had always rested between my legs and admired his handiwork. 

_I'm going to give you a little cunt,_ he'd said. _A pink, little girl's cunt,_ he'd said with four of his fingers inside of me; remembering all this, I now shivered in arousal and terror, just as I had shivered at sixteen.

The boy pushed closer, closer, his _cunt_ gleaming with oil, the sweet scent of orange blossoms filling my nostrils; I gasped in astonishment, my mouth hanging open. 

"Taste me," the boy crooned in the wickedest of voices, and before I could resist, he laughed, turned around and pushed his wet fingers into my mouth. I cried out around his fingers, in shock, in indignation as I tasted orange blossoms, oil, the musty taste of his arse upon my tongue. I reeled, reeled because I had not tasted even you that deeply, not so fully, and yet this "gift" was a violation, nothing more. I was not being offered sexual favours; it was the boy using _me,_ the shah of all Persia for his gratification and I--

\--yet again, I must ask for your forgiveness, as I feel ashamed even admitting this to you, that I was used in this way. You must know I would have beheaded the little brat for this insult, had his master not sunk his hands into his hair and pushed him down onto the bed for his insolence. Yet the boy but laughed as the Byzantine took him, took him with a few rough strokes. He told the boy he should taste his own medicine, literally taste it as he forced the boy's mouth upon his prick after, and the boy merely laughed once more as he filled his mouth with the taste of sperm, orange blossoms and himself. 

Stunned, I lay back upon the cushions, now erect despite myself, half from rage, half from arousal. The Byzantine turned towards me, fumbling for words, apologies forming upon his lips, but I did not allow him that pleasure. I made my excuses, rushed out of the room and now I sit here, writing this letter, not knowing what to think. 

I sit here with the writing-tablet in my lap, my erection pressing against it, the taste of orange blossoms in my mouth, yet all I can think of is you. I refuse to shame you by masturbating now; I refuse to give that boy the satisfaction. If I do, he will have won, and I refuse to be conquered by anyone but you. If I have transgressed, I beg for your forgiveness once more--know that I am determined to remain faithful to you, and hereby swear I will remain without release until the day we meet again. Even if I have to cast a spell upon myself to keep from spilling a drop--that much, I owe you. And you know me well enough to picture the smile upon my face as I write this, as I imagine the pleasures that will result from such long abstinence. And I hope there is a smile upon your face, too, at the idea of a love-starved Jaffar in your bed, to deal with as you please. But now, I must send this letter off and retire, for I know I will never grow soft if I keep thinking of your smile. 

Until we meet again, my lady.

***

Husband,

I sent a handmaiden to the bazaar and bade her buy the highest quality orange blossom oil she could find, as well as some oil of almonds to mix it with. Perhaps I might experiment a little tonight. Would you like that?

***

Wife,

I hate you.

***

Jaffar,

I love you, too.

***

My dearest,

Accept my apologies in the form of this gift from the Chinese delegate. It is made of but one single piece of pure jade and priceless, so handle it carefully. It is quite the specialised gift, and I am sure you will have no doubt as to its purpose once you see its shape. I think it would go well with the orange blossom oil. 

As I am sure you will have guessed, I am hoping for--nay, _expecting_ a detailed report on how you two got along.

***

Beloved,

I must admit I thought your gift lewd, even for your tastes. The first thing I thought of upon opening the case was "Shame; it is considerably slimmer than his," quickly followed by "God have mercy, I have married an old goat!" What am I to think? It is a fine object, to be sure, but your perversion astonishes even me. I hope you did not shame me by telling anyone who you had bought it for, or else I will have your head! 

Really, I am stunned. What if someone had found out? What if someone already has? I can hear your laughter as I write this, and it does not help. It's all very well for you, but consider my reputation, husband. You know how quickly gossip spreads at court. If word of this gets out, I swear I shall tell them you got it for me because you were impotent! How would you like that? There, now I am imagining the look of shock upon your face--like that time one of our cats fell into a washbowl and emerged wet, sputtering--and immediately, I feel better. You didn't think of that possibility, did you?

However, under the circumstances, it is a welcome gift, and I must admit I am intrigued. "This is the sort of tool used to open virgins, female and male alike," you wrote, and now I am consumed by curiosity: how did you come to know of such toys? Have you, perhaps, used one on a slave girl? A boy? Or have you had one used on yourself as a lad? You can imagine my head was spinning with the wildest of visions as I retired to the bedroom to play with your gift. 

I laid myself down upon our bed, examining the toy, clasping it, feeling its weight in my hands. The toy felt strange, obviously much colder and harder than the real thing, but not unpleasant. I laid it over my mound and the weight of it was wonderful, the pressure of it much heavier than that of my fingertips. So I began to rub myself with it, although I needn't have: I had cleaned myself up just before at the baths, you see, rinsed myself like the Byzantine's boy must have, and the pleasure of the cleansing itself had made me wet with arousal.

You see, all of this reminded me of that night in our tent, of what it had been like to play the pageboy for you. And I could not help but think of Jaffar the pageboy, too, how you must have looked like as a youth--images of you opening yourself up with a toy like this for some older man flitted through my mind and I moaned out loud. To imagine you being taken as you had taken me, you mewling through your lips (how they must've been even redder than they are now, how high your voice!) as a prick slid mercilessly between those buttocks of yours. Oh, to have been there, my darling.

But it was then that the adult Jaffar stepped into the centre of my mind once more, with his cruel smile and crueller cane, demanding service from his little pageboy. Heavy, the jade slid over my clitoris, but I felt almost numb now as I was so wet, desperately craving more friction. I clutched my thighs together and rubbed up against the toy, moaning as I remembered the strokes of your cane, the slowness with which you had slid your cock inside my arse. Just like then, my cunny was jealous, wetter than usual, begging to be taken, too, aching. And just like you, I was cruel and refused it penetration. I turned onto my stomach and lifted my buttocks, only sodomy on my mind.

I had the orange blossom oil waiting beside the bed, but I could not wait. I pressed the toy against my anus and started pushing it in, and I was so wet, had dripped so much between my buttocks that it started to slide in immediately. I shook at my own shamelessness, even if no one was watching; shook as I moaned into the pillows, my nipples as hard as pebbles. Oh, Jaffar, you should have seen me--I felt my cheeks flushing at how much I wanted it, how easily my arse opened for a prick made of stone, how but a few strokes made its cold length slide deep inside of me. And it was then that I saw you, in my mind's eye, so vividly it was as if you were there--I would not have put it past you to have set up another crystal to observe me without my knowledge. I turned onto my back and imagined you leaning over me, watching me, laughing softly in sweet mockery at my eagerness.

"Why is your little cunny so wet?" you tutted with a cruel, pitying voice, and I rubbed at my clitoris, fancying my fingers yours. "Is it because I'm fucking you in the arse? Hmm?" you asked, as you--I--slipped fingers into my cunny and curled them. "Is that it?" you mocked still as I groaned deep in my chest, grinding into my hand, barely able to keep the toy inside myself as I felt myself coming undone. I was loud and the servants must have heard, but I was beyond caring: I pushed the toy in again and again, rutted into my hand and came and came, so violently my entire body was shaking. I had to let go immediately, as my muscles were cramping and I sunk into the mattress, panting, the toy sliding out of me. The orange blossom oil lay unused beside the bed as I caught my breath, stunned at the ease with which I had just sodomised myself, how _you_ had just sodomised me without even being present in the room.

I am terrified, Jaffar. Terrified of losing my mind. What are you doing to me? 

 

***

My sweet,

Not long now. Don't lose your mind just yet, and I will promise not to lose mine either. The negotiations are drawing to a close and I should soon be with you, God willing. Keep thinking of me, my love. Think of me resting between your legs, watching as you play with your gift, with a smile of approval upon my face and my hand on my cock, ready to join in the play. For soon, I shall.

And think of it: there are some small advantages to our distance. For instance, you are not here to slap me if I call you--even playfully, fondly--a harlot, for I do so love seeing that side of you. Yes, a harlot; my sweetest harlot--imagine me murmuring the word into your cunny as I lick it, as I clasp my hand over yours to keep the toy deep inside of you. Can you imagine how hard it is to not touch myself now, as I imagine you spread out in front of me, opening yourself up to me, your sweetness dripping onto my tongue? 

Yet, I am glad the distance will soon be a thing of the past. It is getting more and more difficult to even remember what you smell like, my love, what you taste like, and it's driving me insane. Why, today the kitchens served us peaches, and I all but moaned as I lifted one to my lips. I had to nuzzle, just a little, before nicking it with my teeth, flicking my tongue out to lap at the nectar inside. For a moment, I was lost, sucking at the fruit, devouring it, trembling a little before I remembered I was in company and had to control myself. They must have thought me mad, but the Byzantine only smirked. He lifted his peach to his lewd lips in turn and glanced at his boy, and I flushed in envy, thinking of the pleasures he would partake of that night. And again I felt a twist of loneliness in my heart, even jealousy, the terror of perhaps losing you to another while I was gone. Forgive this old man his fears and soothe his heart by telling him this: what do you miss the most about our lovemaking?

For me, it is the moment of coming home, the shelter I find in you. When, after a long day, I can take this blasted turban off, drop these damned heavy ceremonial robes and rest naked in your arms. When you welcome my weight upon you with the sweet softness of your body, your breasts, thighs, belly, so warm and loving underneath me. It is that moment I am finally inside of you, as deep as a man can be inside a woman. It is that little noise of yours, that little noise you make into my ear as if you cannot bear it, as if you are about to break. That is why I so often stay so still inside of you, press so deep into you, because I await that sound, await that shiver. I thirst for you, thirst for every noise and the flutter of your flesh around mine, the way you grow wetter, the despair in your voice as you plead for me to move inside you.

They say I am a tyrant, that I enjoy the sight of blood, the cries of the tortured: but no traitor's suffering could excite me the way your pleasure-pain does. What do I care for the rack when I have _you_ twisting underneath me every night, crying out for mercy? Why would I need tongs when I can extract the sweetest of confessions from you with but a curl of my fingertips? Your sweet suffering is a pleasure greater to my eyes than the sight of a thousand slain enemies. Because only you die for me each night, die in me each night, over and over, pleading to be slain again. 

You say I am cruel, my love; you tell me I am a monster, but you are the only one who has ever said it lovingly. I never tire of hearing you say it, moan it, weep it as I crush you against my chest, your hair bunched in my fists. The engineer in me loves it, loves to observe your reactions to my ministrations. I study every little moan, every little tremor of your limbs, the way your eyes light up as I promise you further agonies. And as the engineer, I constantly strive to learn, to improve, to adapt my touches, my words to perfect myself as your lover. And oh, when I succeed, oh, when you come undone underneath me--there is nothing more intoxicating in the world! Only then can I spend myself inside of you, die in you in turn, having made a sea of your pleasure to drown myself in.

I miss the language we share--how I can hint of a specific act with but a flick of my hand and make you flush scarlet in public. I miss the way you can command me in turn with but a glance, casting down your eyelashes, sending me to my knees in worship. And between your legs I will worship, gladly--I could spend an eternity but tasting you. It may be a sinful act, but I suspect it has been so called because of the utmost pleasure it brings. And let us remember that without sinners, God would be out of a job! Therefore, it is only pious of me to indulge. If I was to be told I was only ever allowed to make love to you through one act alone, I would choose that--the worship of my own wife's sweet cunny. The peaches are shamed by its softness on those days you have just shaved it, likewise by its sweetness. Such a feast for my mouth I will never tire of tasting it; my jaw and tongue ache but thinking of it. It's almost a disappointment when you tell me to stop and take you with my prick instead. Perhaps, when I come home, I should tie you down so I could lap at you as long as _I_ like--would you like that, my love? Your legs spread wide, so wet you were dripping down my chin, begging in vain to be _fucked_? Oh, I think you should quite enjoy that. I can practically feel you flushing as you read this, as I am sure you can imagine me wetting my lips in anticipation.

If I am lucky, the negotiations will end this afternoon. After, there will be a final feast--it is, after all, expected of a Barmakid--and tomorrow morning, I am coming home. Pray to God and all his angels my hopes will come true. 

Until tomorrow, my sweet.

***

My love,

The Lord is merciful indeed! I said many additional prayers for your safe delivery tomorrow. Until then, old husband, I will gladly soothe your foolish heart--for yes, you are an old, jealous fool. But how can I tell you what I love most about our lovemaking if I love all of it, even the imperfections? Yet it would feel as if I were cheating if I gave you that as my answer. Here I sit, then, thinking of what makes me love even those days when our passion is not at its wildest; when pain, weariness or an ill mood has come in the way of our lovemaking. And my love, I think I know what it is. 

It is your patience that is at the core of it, your patience and your care. Let them call you a tyrant; you have been nothing but gentle with me where it truly matters. Remember that first week after our wedding; how I wanted to claw your eyes out when you made me wait and wait for each new pleasure? At first, in my impatience, I felt there was something wrong with me, that you did not find me so desirable after all. That first night I lay in your arms, undeflowered, I wondered if you were punishing me for denying you for so long--if, in fact, you wanted to hurt me. And every night since, you have proved me wrong by giving me more sweetness than I thought I could ever deserve. And every night, I have wanted to repay your patience a thousandfold in kisses, in caresses. If anything, it is your patience that has made me braver, bolder, that exact harlot you describe me as. I knew you for an alchemist, but not one in the art of love, capable of turning a virgin into a wanton in such a short space of time. And with such gentleness, too. 

I think it is because you are nothing like I expected--feared--a husband to be. Older women warned me of the dangers of saying no to a man, of telling a man if he hurt you, of disappointing a man if he wanted you. And yet you ask permission to take me, you ask if what you are giving me feels unpleasant. It is still difficult for me to say "no," still difficult to say if something hurts too much, so every time you pause to ask and kiss my hand it breaks my heart. For so long I have been told that if a man wants to take, it is his right to do so--and that's why I feared you so much at first. With you, I have to ask to be taken. And I would not have it any other way.

Do you remember the first time we rushed our joining, when it was too soon after my monthly flow, when I curled up in pain underneath you? And yet I did not want to stop because I loved you so much, because I wanted you inside of me so much, even if each thrust felt like a knife to my womb. And yet you noticed, pulled out and gathered me into your arms. How stubborn I was in my tears of shame, in my belief I had failed you! How many kisses I required to be convinced otherwise! Still, I wanted to make it up to you.

I remember it well. I had slid down on the bed, my hand and mouth at the ready, wanting nothing but to give you the release you had been denied inside of me. And yet you told me to take you slowly, turning that night into a lesson in the pleasures of the mouth. I thought I had failed at giving you pleasure, yet that night you gave me the keys to so many of your secret places, showed me how to truly unman you with ecstasy--the beauty of it frightened me, my love. I shiver as I think of the way your face contorted in pleasure, how your stomach quivered, gleaming with sweat, how your hands clutched the sheets. How helpless your eyes were when you lost yourself in my mouth that night, how you all but died in the throes of love, more a willing victim than a greedy master.

That is what I mean, my love, when I say you are an alchemist of the art of love: any small defeats, you are able to turn into greater victories. I had felt like a failure, and you turned me into a conqueror! And I, in turn, am gladly conquered when it fits your mood to do so, when that same alchemy transforms you into the beast you know I love. Know that I await your tender kisses; know that I await the sweet safety of your embrace, but know that I also await _him_. 

Oh, yes, I await him. I have missed his feline steps in our bedchamber, have missed his shadow falling over me, have missed his teeth sinking into my shoulder as he takes me without mercy. He is everything I feared about my old witch-suitor; he is everything that makes my heart leap in exquisite terror still. He is my dark prince in the mirror, the shadow in my garden, the one whose gaze was always upon me like an angel's or a devil's, I could never tell which. He is the one whose eyes make my breath catch in my throat; his stare makes me want to run even when I cannot move a limb, even if I know there is no escape. His are the fingers curling cruelly inside of me, his mouth curling crueller still as he croons at me sweetly and demands his prize. He is the one whose marks decorate my breasts, my thighs like jewellery, and I bear them with pride at the baths for other women to marvel. He is the one I will feel inside of me well into the next day; a sweet lingering soreness, a lascivious looseness to my hips.

I have not known him for a long time. Tell me the wait is over. Tell me tomorrow I shall meet him again. 

***

My beloved, beloved wife,

You shall. The negotiations are over--at last!--and your long-lost lover shall rejoin his beloved after midday tomorrow. I will only pause to visit the baths, for even a beast is at his best when freshly washed and perfumed. I'll make sure to wash every part of myself thoroughly for your pleasure--every inch of my skin is yearning for the touch of your lips. Yes, I am sure you already know what I mean by that, for I have not forgotten about those little perversions you hinted at in your letters. But will you dare act them out, I wonder? Just how greedy _is_ that sweet little mouth of yours? Is it a match for mine? For your beast is famished, my lady. He goes to his bed thinking of orange blossoms, peaches; he thinks of swallowing you whole.

Good night, my sweet. Dream of him. 

***

It is midday, and Yassamin reels upon her cushions, pressing her thighs tighter together. She curses under her breath as the knock at the door turns out to be a handmaiden, bringing something Yassamin had requested herself: sweet, honeyed tea to make mouths warm and sweet for kissing. She shoos the girl away, impatient, knowing Jaffar is already in the house. She'd heard the horses, the commotion outside, the cries of delight from the other women as they saw their husbands returning.

Yet hers keeps her waiting. She knows it to be a peculiar perversion of Jaffar's, waiting, to the point where it resembles less of a quirk and more the obsession of a madman. Yet they have been parted for weeks, and surely even he must have had his fill of the thrill of anticipation, of denying himself the pleasures of the flesh? She cannot stay still and must pace the room, her thin silk gown billowing as she strides from one end of the room to the other, pausing at the door now and then to bite her nails. 

And then, the knock. A hard, sharp series of three raps, unmistakably his. Her heart leaps in her chest, but as she reaches for the door, a wicked urge coils in her stomach. No. She will not make it so easy for him. She takes a few steps back, a few more, and stands at the centre of the room. 

"Come in."

He does, and she cannot suppress a smile, despite her intention to tease. Her husband is home. He's clad only in the lightest of suits himself, all sapphire silks, grinning as he tosses away his flimsily-wrapped turban and shakes his still-damp hair free. He leans back against the door like a besotted youth, tilting his head back, sighing with delight as he takes her in. "Let me look at you."

She smiles and spreads her arms, her bracelets jingling. "Three weeks older than when you left me, I am afraid." She looks down at herself and laughs. "I've practically wasted away."

He raises an amused eyebrow. "If you're starved of caresses, wife, why won't you embrace me? I, too, have hungered."

"Maybe I enjoy watching you suffer, beloved." She flushes with her own boldness and takes a few trembling steps back.

He follows her like a shadow, matching her step by step, his eyes sparkling with delight at her game. He runs his eyes up and down her body, through the thin silk that does nothing to disguise the hardness of her nipples, the smooth curve of her shaven sex. 

He tuts. "You should be careful, my lady. Hunger can make even the most honest of men into thieves."

She casts a playful, mocking glance at him and takes two steps back. "And you've come to steal, have you?" 

"Oh, yes," he laughs, taking three steps towards her, flicking his lashes down, gazing lewdly between her legs. "I was told this garden had the most _delicious_ peaches." He dips his fingers into the folds of her gown, brushing her mound through the silk.

With a girlish squeal of delight, she runs from him, laughing as she goes. He follows, but does not run, does not leap the way she does, only walks very slowly, unhurried, with a lascivious smile upon his lips. She leans back against the wall, panting, her cheeks burning with heat, burning under his stare. And yet he approaches her calmly, with the lazy gait of a cat, his hips loose with the heat of lust. 

"Why won't you give me a taste?" he purrs, so close to her now, his perfumes filling her nostrils, his body heat melting into hers.

She ducks, but now faces a corner. She turns around to find his arms bracketing her head, him looming over her, his lips close enough to kiss. She quivers, quivers as he closes his eyes and _inhales_ her, hissing through his teeth. Her heart flutters like a caged bird as he lifts her chin with his hand, dragging his thumb over her lips, smearing their paint. "And pomegranates, too," he chuckles. "The question is, which one of your delights shall I taste first? Hmm?" he croons, his mouth open, wet, his tongue flickering between his teeth.

Defiant, she sinks down to her knees and slides her hands between his legs. She finds the curve, the length of his cock and closes her hand around it, her other hand around the swell of his balls. She strokes them through the fabric, making a warm nest of her hands, of the silk for him to nestle into. She presses her cheek against his length, inhaling him in turn, whispering softly. "What if I should taste you first, my love?"

And oh, how he _moans_ at that, how he strokes her hair with trembling fingers, how he presses his cock into the gentleness of her hands. He does not answer, so she slips her hands inside, lifting his genitals out with the softest of touches, far too soft for true pleasure but soft enough for a tease. "What if I should claim what's mine?" she murmurs as she cups his balls, knowing how they must ache, squeezing them a little until he cries out in sweet pleasure-pain. 

He presses his forehead against the wall and rocks into her hands, feverish. "I saved it all for you," he croaks, his voice pitched higher with despair, "I did not spill a drop, oh--" And there, the first few of those precious drops gather at the tip of his cock, sticky, thick, awaiting her tongue. Her mouth waters, her cunny clenches, the trembling of his body infecting hers until she shakes with her craving. 

"All for me?" Yassamin whispers. She licks her palm, closes it around his prick once more and he is so hard, so hard he could truly hurt her now, and she _wants him to_. "Shall I drink you up, my love?"

He claws at the wall, his fingertips white against the blue mosaics. "My queen," he chokes. "Do you want me to beg?"

She gifts him with a long lick, long, from root to tip, kissing at the head until a long gleaming string dangles between the tip and her lips. She licks it into her mouth, stroking him softly, smiling up at him. "Yes, Jaffar. It would please me greatly."

"Please," he groans, almost immediately, but that's just a little too easy, so she tarries a little. She continues to stroke him, watching his reactions. She marvels at the madness of his eyes (how she'd missed their colour, the way they grow a dark blue when widened with lust), the way his entire body quickens from the touch of her hands, from her smile. Her beast, tethered and chained by her caresses. She shakes with her power, moaning herself when she finally takes him into her mouth, so hard and silken and warm, _him._ She sighs around his cock, wetting her mouth for him the way he has taught her to, slicking it for a sweet wet slide, earning her the most beautiful of cries from deep in his belly.

But in her giving, she also takes, takes in the man she loves: it is so long since she has last tasted him, and her head swims with the mix of tastes that make up _Jaffar_. She catalogues them in her mind: the salt of sweat, the slightly metallic blood-tinge of flesh, the smallest hint of urine, not unpleasant; the rich oils and ointments he uses to care for his body. As she draws back for breath, she realises he has shaved himself entirely, her fingertips finding the smoothest, softest skin where she has normally encountered short-cropped black hair. 

"Is this why you spent so long at the baths, my love?" she grins as she cups his shaven sack, spreads his silks wide open to caress the skin newly exposed to her kisses, licks. 

He chuckles as he pulls off his shirt and lets his shalwars drop to the floor. "The barber said it was all the rage in Jerusalem." He caresses her hair, sighing softly as she continues to make love to him with her mouth, alternating sucks with soft kisses. "Besides, I did not lie when I said every inch of my skin wanted your kisses." 

She pulls back again, admiring his cock, now gleaming wet, slick and hot in her stroking hand. "It looks like you've gained some, my love." 

He nods conspiratorially. "Yes, that was my other motivation. Does it please my queen's eyes?" 

"I would it pleased parts other than my eyes, my king," she laughs and gifts him with the wickedest, slickest of sucks, looking straight into his eyes. She wants her beast, and he knows she does, knows it from the way her hand curls around his balls again, from the way she dares graze his cock with her teeth with deliberate clumsiness, insolent in her need. His eyes snap open in pain and realisation: for a short moment, he questions her with his gaze, as if to make sure she knows what she is asking for. 

In moments like these, she wonders if he fears himself, fears the monster he could be, fears he could truly lose control. She is playing with fire, but it is a fire matched by the one in her own heart, one that yearns to join with his, burn with a violent brightness until they are both but cinders. So again, she makes her mistake, tugs lightly at the head of his cock with her teeth, making a "yes" with her eyes, a plea with her hand between his legs. _Take me,_ she writes upon his perineum with her fingertips, _burn me_ , she speaks with a curl of her tongue and watches him fall.

When he opens his eyes again, they are frost. He growls and sinks his hands into her hair, thrusting into her throat again, again until her eyes water. "You give mouth like a poorly trained slave girl," he hisses, sharp as daggers, a voice making her drip down to her thighs. "Tell me, does an unskilled slave girl deserve to be pleasured?" He pulls her head back by the hair, the pain rendering her incapable of an answer. All she can do is whimper, whimper as he holds her gaze, sliding his cock in and out of her mouth so hard it sends her earrings jangling, choking her deliberately. She's dizzy with it, drunk with how much she wants him like this, a furious Jaffar in a fury of her own crafting, a Jaffar who no longer asks but _takes._ She gags, coughs and then screams in agony as he pulls her to her feet by her hair, lifts and slams her up against the wall and slides his cock inside of her. 

"Jaffar!"

"Yes?" He gathers her close, gentler, now, chuckling as she sinks deeper onto his cock, held up by his arms. 

"Oh, God." But God is not listening, a voice in her mind blasphemes; only her devil, crushing her against the wall, crushing the air out of her lungs, taking her so violently it hurts. She is so wet, so slick, and yet he feels enormous, swollen, hard as iron: she does not recognise her own voice as panicked whimpers scatter from her mouth onto his shoulder. Her own weight betrays her, lowers her onto his cock so that he hits the very root of her, the deepest part of her, and her eyes roll back in her head. She gulps for air only to have it cut off by his thrusts, her arms and legs clutching helplessly around him as she is stretched, pulled apart, claimed. It hurts, yet it does not; she does not know whether to call it pain or pleasure, and maybe that's it, maybe they have gone beyond both and--

\--and then she is on the floor, her gown pulled off her, the rug burning stripes onto her shoulderblades. Jaffar's nostrils are wide as he drags in heavy puffs of breath through them, his lips pulled back from his teeth as he slowly lowers himself inside of her. 

"Is this what you wanted, my child?" he asks as he makes her convulse on the floor, her head snapping to the side from a particularly cruel thrust. "I could have been so sweet for you," he murmurs, his breath teasing her neck, her ear, "I could have been kind." Another thrust and a roll of his hips, his thumb coming up to crush the scream that tries to escape her lips. "I could've licked your little cunny and had you slowly, but no, no," he laughs. "This little harlot just wanted to be _fucked_." 

She sucks his thumb into her mouth and screams, screams helplessly around it as he pins her to the ground with his weight. But he does not stop, no, wet noises filling the room as his slick, smooth flesh slaps against hers, made wet from her arousal. She is so close, now, pleasure lashing, blossoming through her body, erupting from her mouth in long moans, turned into ululations by the percussion of his merciless hips. "Kiss me," she sobs into his face, clawing at his chest; "Kiss me, Jaffar."

"Oh, no," he shakes his head, drops of sweat scattering upon her throat, "I know what happens then." 

"Please. You're killing me. Please."

He slows down and brushes his lips across her jaw, her cheek and she can taste his breath, sweet with mint and honey. "What will you give me for it?" 

She tries to grab his head and steal her kiss, but he is too fast, pinning her wrists down. "What will you give me, my love? What will you give for my mouth?" 

"My own, to serve your pleasure." She rears up underneath his hands, snapping her teeth, trying in vain to catch his lips. "Please." 

He tilts his head, pretending to consider her, sliding his thumb down to her clitoris. "And no bites?" 

She sinks her hand into his hair and pulls him close. "None you don't want," she pants onto his lips, gasping as his thumb presses and rubs. "Please, Jaffar. Please kiss me." 

And he does, his mouth wide open, his tongue flicking into her, fucking her mouth as he fucks the rest of her. She pulls him so close to herself their teeth click, shouts into his mouth as he pounds her orgasm out of her, rocks it through her body thrust after thrust. She shakes around him, her ankles locked around his back, falling into a thousand pieces around him, within him, into him. _He is home,_ she thinks dizzily, _and mine, mine_ , as the fog clears, as she returns to her senses and cradles him in her arms. 

He is smiling, so sweetly, so warm, now. He trembles, every muscle in his body screaming out for release, and she takes pity on him. Without words, she rolls him onto his back, slides down his slippery body and takes him into her mouth. 

"Oh--" his head falls back, his hips thrusting reflexively into her mouth, making her gag. His fingers flutter in her hair, apologetic, now. "I'm sorry."

She strokes his cock, kissing it softly. "Always so quick to apologise," she scolds him gently, smiling up at him. "Even if you know I love all my Jaffars."

"Would you prefer I didn't?"

She laces her fingers with his. "No. I love the gentle Jaffar, too." And full of love, she squeezes his hand and whispers softly. "I am so glad you are back, my love."

"As am I." He presses her hand against his smiling lips. "Please, don't stop."

She smiles back. "I won't." 

Slowly, she takes him with her mouth, gentle and sweet. It is too late for tricks, and tricks would shame this moment, shame the beauty of him conquered by love. With the softest of strokes she coaxes him into letting go, with the kindest of glances she undoes him, rejoices in his offering of love held back for days. He needn't have been chaste--she could hardly have been jealous of his hand, or even a slave boy--but his devotion breaks her heart. She doesn't know if she can ever repay it, or repay the way he has served her as a lover. In this moment, she loves him so much it becomes an acute pain, a pain twisting in her chest, in her stomach, filling her eyes with tears. "My sweet love," she whispers as she pulls back from a suck, as she moves her thumb to the spot she knows will send him tumbling over the edge. "Please let me taste you."

He does not answer her in words, only squeezes her hand and shudders, quietly. He frowns as if in pain, eyes wide, gasping as his cock leaps in her hand. The first splash hits her cheek and quickly, quickly, she captures him in her mouth. She whimpers in surprise--even knowledge of his abstinence couldn't have prepared her for the way he now fills her mouth to the overflowing, with sperm bittersweet and thick. Some of it escapes her mouth onto her stroking fingers, Jaffar crying out and clawing at the carpet as she keeps on milking him, drawing his orgasm into herself. True to her promise, she drinks him in, swallowing him down, sucking greedily even as his convulsions ebb into tremors, even as he lets out a gasp of discomfort, sensitive after his ejaculation. His hands lift her hair away from her face, his hips twitch and he gasps again, but he doesn't withdraw. He knows how much she wants this, how much she wants to taste every last drop of him and he stays there, shuddering as she swallows him whole, suckles gently upon his cock as it softens in her mouth. 

She could stay here forever, but holding him in her mouth, the marvel of his hard flesh growing soft again, now vulnerable and tender where it once felt it could tear her in two. But her jaw aches, and she lets him slip from her mouth, lets Jaffar pull her to lie down on top of him, lets him kiss her slow and sweet. She lets herself be savoured, lets him taste his own sperm from her mouth, lick it off her cheek, lets him comb her hair to fall around his face like a perfumed veil. Gladly, she gives him the shelter he yearns for, embracing him tight, letting him feel her heartbeat against his. 

"Never leave me again," she sighs against his chest.

He sighs into her hair in turn. "I wish I could promise you that. I should just cast a glamour upon you and smuggle you with me wherever I go." He pulls back, raising his eyebrows, making a mock-thoughtful face. "Although it'd be more difficult to disguise your presence at night. You are quite the screamer, my queen." 

She is about to protest, but he tickles her, rolling her to her side, making her shriek and yowl like a maniac. She tickles him back until he, too, howls, then wrestles him down with her hands on his wrists. They lie there, panting, wriggling, laughing into each other's mouths between kisses. 

"I'd quite like to make _you_ scream before the day is over, husband."

"Is that so?" 

"Come to bed and find out." She gets up and holds out her hand.

He makes his way to the tray on the floor instead. "That tea is getting cold."

"Then bring it." She flops down onto the bed in dramatic fashion and stretches in delight. "Slave."

He doesn't answer, merely lays the tray beside the bed, picks up an almond and throws it at her head. When she yelps, he throws another, pelting her with a rain of almonds until she is kicking and yowling again, until they collapse into kisses and giggles once more. 

She sighs into his mouth in utter contentment. "I married a fool."

"Yes, what a pair we make. The fool and the demoness. Do you know, there might be a new folktale in that." He hands her a glass of tea and sips his own. "Although I'm not sure if I'd care for the world to know of my demoness's adventures. Even she has a reputation to maintain."

She glances beside the bed, where the jade prick lies waiting. "You were willing to risk it for that thing!"

He picks the last few almonds from the sheets and chews them, nodding as he sips his tea. "It was worth it, however, was it not?"

She glances down at his cock. "I suppose so, for those times my slave is... incapacitated." 

He ignores the taunt, finishes his tea and stretches upon the bed, purring in relaxation. "Patience, my mistress. There are other ways in which your slave could serve you." 

She feels his arm and tuts. "A skinny little thing like you? You would be of no use around the house, or carrying my litter."

"I could be an entertainer," he smirks. "There was a wonderful new ditty I learned--"

"--Jaffar, your singing voice is _terrible_."

He pouts. "Then I will but have to be content with my lot as a pleasure slave, submitting my hands and my mouth to my mistress's cruel demands." He slips his hand between her legs and caresses her thighs. "Such an ardurous task," he sighs mock-tragically, his head pressed into the pillows, and looks so beautiful she has to kiss him. He ruffles her hair, gazing into her eyes, his own a little crossed in lazy contentment. "Show me. I want to see you play with it." 

Despite herself, she flushes a little. Her hands tremble as she reaches for the toy, her limbs unsteady as she props up a few cushions and leans back upon them. She has masturbated for him before, without shame, but somehow the jade cock feels more lewd, ostentatiously unnatural and perverse. Of course, that is exactly what excites her: that he would buy a thing like this for her, that he likes to _watch._ She flushes more as she spreads her legs and as Jaffar settles between them, propping his chin on his hands like an excited youth.

She lays the toy over her mound, rubbing up against it. She spends a long time playing with herself, spreading her folds with the toy, spreading glistening wetness all over, teasing him with the sight. Her cunny, so well-loved, now flushing for him once more, dripping for him once more. She groans in delight and rolls the toy in her slit, enjoying the weight of the jade upon her swollen clitoris. "Enjoying yourself, my lord?"

He sighs happily, never taking his gaze from between her legs. "You have no idea how much I am struggling to hold back, my lady. You let me split the peach but not taste it." He leans closer and inhales her scent, shameless, his lashes falling against his cheeks. "Already I am jealous of the jade."

She angles her hips forwards, dipping the tip of the toy inside of herself, and she is so wet from their lovemaking, so wet from fresh arousal it slides in immediately. She cannot hold back a gasp, her hand trembling as her cunny clenches around the cold stone. She is so soft, so swollen, and the smooth slide of the toy feels so different to his cock, the lack of its friction strange and unnatural, like she is being taken by some demon made of stone. Her eyes flutter shut and for a moment, she imagines a Jaffar made of jade taking her without mercy, forcing her to come on his cold green cock, swallowing her tears with his cold green lips.

When she opens her eyes, she knows there is little difference between the demon in her mind and the man resting between her legs: once more, his eyes are shining with sweet wickedness, his buttocks undulating softly as he rubs himself against the sheets. She can feel his breath upon her, his greed as he spreads her thighs to see her better, to admire the glistening wet jade, the flush of her cunny. On an impulse, she pulls the toy out and slowly, deliberately lays it upon his lips. He jerks, his eyes flashing wide, then slides his mouth around the cock and _moans._ He clasps his hand over hers and sucks, sucks, and the sight, the delight he takes in the act makes her whimper. Her Jaffar, become a pageboy, lapping and sucking at her cock. Yes, _her cock_. 

Again, she whimpers as he takes the toy and turns it in his hands, dipping it into her cunny once, twice, then sliding it down to rest against her slickened arse. He pauses, glancing at the orange blossom oil by the bed, then glancing back at her with a smirk. "Do you think you could take it like this, my sweet?" 

"Yes," she whispers, spreading herself with her hands, shivering as he starts to push inside. And then his mouth is on her cunny, lapping, sucking, and she is nothing but a long moan to match his long stroke, his long stone cock inside of her arse. It is nothing like their night of sodomy in the tent: the slim, glass-smooth cock slides inside of her with very little pain and again she groans, pushing her cunny onto his mouth. She cannot believe this is happening, twists upon the bed, twists her hands into his hair. "Oh, God, Jaffar."

He chuckles into her mound, smacking his lips. "Yes, my sweet. It is quite a sight. Never did I think it would be possible to taste you and bugger you at once, but _look at that,_ " he croons in approval. He turns the toy inside of her, making her jerk upon the bed. "And such a wet little cunny, too," he taunts, just as he had done in her fantasy, bringing his thumb to her clitoris. "It's never this wet when I just lick it, is it?" he tuts between laps, making her shudder, making her heart gallop in her chest. "But look at you. Push a cock inside this tight little hole and you're drowning me in nectar." He sucks and licks her again, _noisily,_ deliberately vulgar, and she shouts, shouts up at the ceiling as a white flash of orgasm takes her by surprise. He closes his lips around her clitoris and sucks, pushing the toy as deep as it will go and she convulses again, sobbing as she rocks her hips back onto the toy, onto his laughing mouth. 

"I'm sorry," she slurs, still twitching and rolling, gasping as he continues to take her arse, "Sorry," yet rubs at her clitoris with her hand, shuddering her last. 

"There's nothing to apologise for, my dear." He kisses her sticky fingers. "I am but flattered, as you can see." He lifts his hips a little, displaying his erection, closing his wet fingers around it as he gives her cunny another lick, making aftershocks trip through her body. "Would you like some more?" 

"On one condition." She pulls the toy out, resting it upon her stomach, leaning back to catch her breath.

"And that is?"

"We do it the Byzantine way."

He _whimpers_ , squeezing his cock so hard his knuckles whiten. His mouth hovers over the toy, knowing what she is offering him, the forbidden taste he has craved ever since his humiliation by the boy. And she, too, can be cruel. She tosses the toy onto the bed and runs her fingers over her anus, so wet and open now. "But you have to earn it, my sweet Jaffar."

"Oh, God."

She bites her lip, dips her fingers in a little, then brings them to her own mouth. She rinsed herself thrice, knows there is no danger of unpleasantness, yet shudders in near-orgasm at the risk of it as she sucks her taste off her fingers. Her sweet wetness, the soft metallic taste of her flesh, of the oils she slicked herself with for her cleansing: she cannot help but close her eyes and moan, in shock at her own daring. When she opens her eyes, it looks like Jaffar is about to have a heart attack: his hand pumping his cock, a long string of wetness dangling from it, his eyes even madder than usual. He cannot form words, only coils, curves on top of her, helpless, torn by how much he wants it, wants her. 

His voice is broken, a half-whisper. "My queen. Please. I am begging you."

She grins and turns to her stomach. "Prepare me, then." She wriggles her buttocks.

He groans as he has to let go of his cock, as he takes the bottle of oil from the bedside tray. "Lift up."

She chuckles, smiling at him over her shoulder as she arches her back: the cat in heat, her hips rolling full of soft warmth, her cunny and her arse both hot with sweet soreness. And this is just the start. She clenches in delight as he uncorks the bottle and the scent of orange blossoms fills her nostrils. She closes her eyes as Jaffar spreads her buttocks with his hand. She is ready.

But instead of fingers, she feels cold glass. Her eyes fly wide, she gasps in horror as she realises what he is doing: he has pushed the mouth of the bottle inside her, and her stomach flips as he pours the oil straight inside of her. She shrieks, clawing at the pillows, in shock, in terror. What if the glass should snap, oh God--and then he taps at the end of the bottle, _taps_ it, and she screams into the pillows. "Stop!"

"That's what you get for being such a tease," he growls, pulling the bottle out, _burying his face in her arse._ She screams again as he spreads her with his fingers and laps, _slurps_ at her hole, the oil leaking out of her down his chin, down her cunny, down onto the sheets. It's disgusting, oh, God, it's disgusting and it's horrible and she is sobbing from how good it feels. She is helpless, leaking and he licks it all up, shameless; he twists his fingers deep into her arse, so deep. "That's two. What do you think, my dear?" he snarls and curls them inside her, lifting her up by her arse. "If I took you hard enough, do you think I could fit in all four?" 

She doesn't know the answer, only wails, brings her hand to rub at her clitoris but he swats it off. "Not yet. Tell me what you want, first."

"I want your cock, oh God--"

He slaps her buttock, hard. "Look at me and say it."

She turns her head, rocking back onto his hand, choking down sobs. "Jaffar, please. Please fuck me with your cock." 

He is monstrous, monstrous, dribbling oily spit onto his cock, pulling her arse open with his thumb, covering her with his shadow. He starts to push in deep straight away, with the full weight of his hips behind his thrusts, deliberate in his cruelty. It hurts, but it is the right kind of hurt, not the type that had once made her beg for him to stop. It is more she wants, more. She opens for him so easily, now, weeping tearlessly into the pillows, his cock so much bigger than the toy, the friction of him brutal against the walls of her arse. "Jaffar!" she cries out as he presses her flat into the bed and grinds into her, his sweaty chest plastered against her back, his hands clutching hers.

"Harlot," he whispers onto her shoulder, into her hair, "sweet," to the rhythm of his thrusts, "filthy," "harlot." "My sweet little sodomite, so sweet, so greedy for a prick to fill this little hole of yours, oh--" and then he stops speaking, only fucks her so hard she cannot breathe, so hard her vision turns to white. She cannot speak either, having reached that point, the point only sodomy can take her to, where everything is silent. There's only overwhelming pleasure, only the hard cock stretching her on the inside, hitting her at the sweet spot just behind her womb, bright blasts that blind her with their perfection. One orgasm blends into another, one wave cresting, another falling, until all of her is a sea of pleasure, of exquisite joy. 

She scrabbles for Jaffar's fingers, lacing them with hers, clutching her hands into fists. "I love you," she whispers, so quietly, shuddering underneath him. Drunk, drunk with love she turns her head and kisses him, uncaring of her tangled hair sneaking between their lips. He sobs into her mouth as he answers her kiss, rocking softly on top of her. "I love you so much," he whispers onto her lips. He lifts her a little, wrapping his arms around her, squeezing her so tight it is as if he wants to break her open, meld into her, turn them into a single human being, their hearts beating together in one chest. He pulls her hair away from her face and kisses her again, again, moving his hips slowly, so slick with oil, her wetness, their sweat. "My happiness," he laughs, a little broken laugh against her cheek. "Will you now let me taste you?"

"Yes." She turns to lie down on her back, smiling, tired but happy. Jaffar helps her lift her hips as she fingers herself, pushing three as deep as they can go, then holds them out to him, clear and shining. Slowly, oh so slowly, he pushes his cock inside of her once more, wraps her thighs around himself and leans down to feast upon her slickened hand. He whimpers, mewls so loudly--no, it is a _scream_ he suffocates onto her fingers as he rocks into her, sucking her taste off her fingers as he comes undone inside of her. 

"Oh, God," he moans, shuddering at his own newborn perversion. He revels in it, slamming his hips so deep into her, twisting in his orgasm, his tongue trembling against her fingers. Again, he fills her arse, this time with sperm, mixing sweetly with the oil as both drip down to the small of her back. The love with which the beast had slickened her so roughly, the love drawn from her adoring lover's body, filling her so utterly she runs over. There is no part of her body that does not belong to love, belong to Jaffar, she thinks drunkenly as he lies down on top of her. Even the dirtiest part of her body has now been conquered by love, made clean by preparation and tenderness, sanctified by their lovemaking. 

She thinks he is sated, but no: after he has caught his breath, he kisses his way down her body, slides down between her legs to gaze at her. "You're so open," he smiles, his eyes lazy and adoring. "Three," he warns and slides his fingers inside of her arse, and her throat is so raw from screaming she can only make the tiniest of noises, a little hiccough as she is penetrated. 

"No more," she gasps, too fatigued to even grab his hair, her every muscle trembling from the exertions of love-play.

"Really?" He tilts his head. "I think you lie, my sweet." 

When she doesn't answer, his push widens--four fingers, she realises, tears filling her eyes. "Yes," she whispers because she is a liar, because she tells the truth, because she is too tired; yet, she can never have enough. Slowly, mercilessly he twists his fingers inside of her, playing with her loosened hole, slicking his hand with oil and sperm. She can but lie there, lie there and take it and not fight it, sink into the white and red heat. The stretch is so intense she is on the edge of nausea, yet more relaxed than she has ever been before, noiseless now and beyond such categories as pleasure or pain. There is only Jaffar, the soft stretch of his hand, the soft touch of his tongue on her cunny, the soft words of love he whispers against her flesh. She is only half conscious, beyond even orgasm as he curls and drags his fingers inside of her, making her trickle onto his tongue. Dimly, she wonders if it's the tea, if he has forced her to pass water with the pressure of his fingers, but no, it does not feel the same. 

Evidently, he knows it too, from his chuckle of delight, as if he's found something he was looking for. "That's my girl," he murmurs fondly, repeating the curl-drag, drag-curl and press, drinking her in as she had drunk him. Again, he teases the same spot and she convulses all around him, tears streaming down her temples, her legs jerking upon his shoulders. The movement presses her even harder onto his fingers and she cries out, finally too sore to continue, sobbing as she takes his wrist and gestures for him to pull out. 

He relents, licking his fingertips, making her shudder at his complete lack of inhibition, now, fuelled by his greed to possess her to the deepest parts of her body. He, too, has gone beyond his own limits tonight, his eyes drunk as if he was in one of his trances, a quiet chastity to his kiss as he returns to lie on top of her. She wonders if her soul is next, if he is to devour her and keep her in one of his bottles like a djinni, and she is not sure if she would protest. For he keeps her safe, keeps her so well loved she would never, ever want to leave. He's exhausted her, completely wrung her dry, and she wonders what worry was, what sorrow was, because the love he has given her has extinguished all care. Answering his kiss with a soft sigh, she curls into his embrace and drifts into sleep in his arms. 

***

It is a few hours later that she wakes up, Jaffar still sound asleep beside her. Through the latticed windows, the afternoon sun weaves stripes over his naked body, capturing him in its net of light. He looks so sweet there, having kicked off the sheets, his hair tangled, pomegranate stains from her lips still collaring his throat. A Jaffar netted, collared--oh, wicked thoughts stir in her mind as she drifts into wakefulness, wicked, with the desire to possess him as he has possessed her. 

Quietly, she crawls over him, the sheets rustling gently as she settles down between his legs. He has taught her so much of greed, of craving, of the urge to consume, she thinks as she watches the rise and fall of his chest. She cups his thighs with her palms and strokes them, her bangles tinkling softly; smiles as he shifts in his sleep, his lips murmuring of peaches and oranges. He's had his feast; now it's her turn to take, to steal from him that which her mouth waters for. 

So she leans down and licks, laves the smooth-shaven skin of his groin, of his inner thighs, of his balls: she spreads her tongue wide to catch every little taste of their lovemaking, of Jaffar. She smacks her mouth like a drunkard who has had too much wine, reeling at the taste of orange blossoms, sperm and herself.

His cock stirs before he himself does. It is a pleasure she will never tire of, seeing and feeling him quicken for her as if she were the magician, turning such softness into such hardness, readiness. Slowly, his cock fills and swells in her mouth, growing hotter, thicker, making her moan in delight as she slides back, wetting it with her saliva. His eyes flutter open but a fraction, a lazy smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 

"Now _you've_ come to steal, have you?" he whispers, stroking her cheek with his fingertips. 

She nods a little, hums around his cock, then pulls back for breath. "Only to claim what's mine by right." She lifts his thighs, lifts and spreads them, gesturing for him to keep them apart. "There is something you have cruelly kept from me, husband."

And in that moment, Jaffar is wide awake, his stomach hitching with a half-taken breath, his cock twitching a little. She has taken him with a finger, two, but he must know she wants more tonight, to break the last boundaries between them. Fear flashes in his eyes before he masks it, before he casts his lashes down. And at that, hurt stings her heart: that he should be afraid, that he would even for a second think she could hurt him. So she lies down on top of him, soothes him with the soft warmth of her body and kisses him tenderly, caresses his hair, her fingers lingering at the sensitive skin behind his ears. 

"Jaffar. Am I too bold? I would never take what wasn't freely offered."

He wraps his arms around her, hugging her close, hugging her so hard she cannot breathe. "And I could never deny you anything, my love," he murmurs against her cheek, then pulls back to gaze at her. Her heart trips at the look in his eyes, so clear, now devoid of fear and filled with nothing but love and trust. "Everything that is mine is yours, remember?" 

She kisses him, deep and slow, sighing happily into his mouth. "Then I can have my kiss?"

Jaffar pauses for a while, frowning. "Is a kiss all you wanted?"

It takes a moment for her to catch up with his train of thought, a while for her to follow his gaze to the jade phallus resting beside her pillow. "Oh."

And by now, Jaffar is smirking like a demon, smirking at the way she flushes, at the way she stiffens a little in his embrace. "Yes," he laughs and stretches underneath her, wrapping his legs around her. "I knew you wanted that kiss, so I rinsed myself at the baths. But in case you wanted more, well... it would be a shame to waste the effort."

"Then why did you hesitate?"

"Automatic reaction." He caresses her hair, serious, now. "I have not been taken by a man since I was sixteen. Not after I became strong enough to fight them off."

She slips from his embrace and kisses her way down his body, smiling up at him. "And I am not a man."

Jaffar grins and nods. "That's exactly what worries me. Who knows what cruelties you might infli--oh--" he gasps as she curls her hand around his cock, as she mouths his sack. "My Babylonian," he groans and lets his head fall, lets his hands and legs spread onto the sheets, groans again as she sucks his balls into her mouth.

She lets him lie there, listening to those groans and his other little noises, studying which caresses bring the loudest cries from his throat, which licks sink him into the sheets with the deepest of shivers. Yet she does not venture further down, not yet, loving how her teasing hardens his cock in her fist, how it makes his buttocks clench in anticipation. Even if she has wetted his cock with her mouth, even if she has made him shining, she can tell he is dripping by now. She flicks her thumb across the slit of his cock, again, and he claws at the sheets so hard she can hear it, his fingernails dragging across the thick silk. Even if her mouth waters at the sight, she refuses to suck him now: instead, she makes him wetter and wetter below, working spit from her mouth onto his balls until he is gleaming all over. Her mouth feels dry, now, yet she continues, until a trail of her saliva slips down his perineum, down, sliding onto his anus and he _convulses_.

"Please." He clutches her shoulders with his knees. "Please."

"Show me. Show me where you want my kiss, Jaffar."

He looks so helpless, his long fingers trembling as he rearranges his pillows, as he lifts his hips and spreads his legs. His fingers tremble still and whiten with pressure as they spread his buttocks, expose his anus for her to see. _Be gentle,_ his eyes are saying: a last, wordless plea as he leans back and awaits.

She, however, cannot wait a moment longer. She clasps her hands over his, kissing each fingertip, her lips brushing over the hairless skin between his buttocks. And finally, finally she presses her lips to the soft, warm flesh of his anus. He gasps in the back of his throat, his hips lifting a little, gasps again as if he cannot believe this is happening. 

Yet, she is determined to prove him wrong. She drags her lips across his hole once, twice, then flicks out her tongue, dipping it into his folds. His cry is louder, now, and she cries back in equal measure at his taste, flickering her tongue over his arse as it clenches against her kiss. His taste, oh, God, his _taste_. It is not that different from her own: but a different mix of the metal of flesh, sweat. But then there's the musty taste of the inside of his hole, hot, cleansed of all filth: a taste much deeper, stronger than hers, the musk of a man and she _moans._ Only to have him moan back, the vibrations of her tongue making him clench against her mouth once more.

She lifts her face and his eyes are wild, lost, his hair scattered upon the pillows. She has never seen him like this, never seen her beast so tortured, as if he is about to die. Die if she continues, die if she stops now, she cannot tell. She had enjoyed him doing this to her, but what she knows of a man's anatomy, what she knows of sodomites, what she now sees lying before her convinces her that a man must enjoy this act far more than a woman ever could. And yet he's guarded it from her, perhaps scared of how he would lose control, perhaps scared she might think less of him because of it. She knows it is not the done thing for a grown man to be the recipient in the act of sex; that it is only fit for boys and women, that it shames a man to play the part of the woman. Yet she casts such superstitions aside, because all she can see is pleasure, beauty: her husband, reeling in ecstasy underneath her kisses, her loving tongue. 

Again, she kisses his arse, slowly, reverently, the way he kisses her cunny. She makes her licks into an act of worship, wetting him all over, pushing saliva into every fold, pulling his taste into her mouth and savouring it. The Christians say that their witches kiss the anus of the devil in supplication, and that is exactly how she feels: as if she is taking part in an orgiastic rite, taking part in something that has been forbidden only because of the intoxicating pleasure it brings. With her mouth, she loves and adores her favourite devil: the one who has shared his magic with her in his chambers and in his bed, transforming her, teaching her the forbidden alchemy of ecstasy. And she could not be more grateful.

His anus is a dark pink, flushed, and she trembles as she remembers one of his letters. She sucks on her fingers and massages his arse, presses and strokes until her thumb sinks inside of him, until she is rewarded with a soft mewl from his red, red lips.

"Jaffar?"

"Yes?" He pants, his chest heaving, shining with sweat. His eyes are unfocused, delirious, drunk. 

She glances at the jade cock once more, curls her thumb, pulling him open a little, then captures his eyes with hers. Making her voice sweet as honey, mock-innocent in its tease, she asks him:

"Would you like me to give you a little cunt?"

And at that, he _howls,_ his cock spurting pre-ejaculate onto his stomach, his hands coming to claw at her shoulders. He no longer cares for modesty, for shame, shaking with the fever of lust. "My queen, you had better."

She moves as if in a dream, not even fully believing what she has just said to him. She has never used harsh words, terms like that in her life, but her devil's presence brings this out in her: maybe there is indeed a demoness in her, maybe she once was a harlot in Babylon, and only now, thanks to his coaxing, that side of her is emerging into the light. She does not know herself, but she likes what she is experiencing, loves it as she leans over him to kiss him, licking the taste of his arse onto his lips, his tongue. On a sudden caprice, she licks his cheeks, too, his neck, devouring the juddering pulse at his throat, his gasps as she twists her thumb inside of him. Like a cat makes its fur shining and soft with its spittle, so she wants to burnish him, shine every inch of him with the glow of sex, mouth him until he glows bright.

"Lie still, my love."

She loathes to leave him, but soon returns with the toy, with the oil. There's still some left in the bottle, and she wonders if it is enough, worries about hurting him by accident. So she makes her caresses slow, slickening but one finger and massaging him with it, not penetrating him yet. With her other hand, she clasps one of his, squeezing it gently. "Tell me if I am going too fast." 

"You're not. Come here." He pulls her up to lie half on top of him and guides her hand between his legs. "It'll be easier this way," he smiles against her lips. 

"Are you sure?" her wrist is a little cramped, but she manages to slide one fingertip in, rubbing him softly on the inside.

"I'm sure," he purrs, sliding his hips down to meet her hand. "It'd be even easier if I was on my stomach, I suppose, but then I wouldn't be able to see your face. Oh--" he nuzzles her cheek. "Keep going."

"That's two."

He doesn't answer her in words, only shivers in her arms, clasping her face with both hands, staring into her eyes. Softly, he kisses her, moaning a little into her mouth as she works her fingers in deeper. She is slow, unhurried as she stretches the inner and outer locks of his muscles, blessing him for having taught her how to undo them. She thinks back upon the night in their tent, of the way he had gently tugged and pulled her open, and softly curls her fingers inside of his flesh. 

Immediately, he stiffens and cries out, breaking the kiss.

"Am I hurting you?" she asks.

"No." He presses his forehead against hers, catching his breath. "That felt almost _too_ good, my demoness. Whoever taught you that?"

She shakes her head and laughs. "A wicked, wicked man."

He beams, and she leans back to apply more oil, pushing it inside of him with gentle movements, twisting her fingers as much as she can in this position. He is so hot inside, so hot and soft, and oh, the look on his face as his body opens to accept something she has never dared give him before: three of her fingers. He looks like a madman, keening softly as his pulse flutters around her fingers, so vulnerable, fragile, his entire body held still by her fingertips. His entire life, even, for she knows of the dangers of reaching inside another's body in this manner, just as he does, yet he trusts her. And she wants nothing more than to repay that trust, to repay it with all the pleasure she is capable of giving. She gazes into his eyes with love and slides her fingers deep, as deep as she can and beckons inside of him once more.

He clutches her close to himself again, crying "Oh, merciful God!" against her shoulder. For she has found that spot, that sweet secret place inside his body that makes him lose all sense. She knows how fast it can undo him, so she withdraws her fingers, choosing to merely play at his very entrance instead. 

"Do you think you could take the jade now?"

He nods. "Try." He lies down on his back again, spreading his legs and lifting his hips.

She coats the toy in oil and presses it against his anus. Yet, she hesitates for several seconds, watches as the jade glimmers in the afternoon light, as the oil drips slowly upon the sheets, between Jaffar's buttocks. Her fingers shift upon the toy, unsure. "I think you should do it." 

"Oh, is that it?" he smirks, laughing a little. "So you can watch me as I watched you?"

"Perhaps." She teases, but in reality, she is still nervous and does not want to hurt him. 

He clasps his hand over hers, over the root of the toy. His voice grows smaller, more serious. "Help me." 

The plea in his eyes, the way his hand caresses hers--both twist her heart and awaken a fierce tenderness, protectiveness in her. It is as if a door has opened and she can see, feel why he was so hesitant to deflower her, so reluctant to rush their joining. _Is this what it means to be the bridegroom?_ she wonders. Has he, himself, ever been taken with love, with care? She hopes so--after all, he said some of his lovers had been considerate, but his immediate reaction had told her enough: he still fears pain. Yet he is ready to trust her, trust his body into her hands. 

The responsibility softens her touch, makes her kiss his hip with great tenderness as she starts to press the toy inside. He grows quiet, too, his fingers curling over hers, urging her to move the toy first with short and then longer strokes, in and then out, in and then out. He smirks a little less and closes his eyes, breathes deep, and it's obvious he is trying to recollect the memory of thirty years past: of how to relax, how to take a cock inside of himself, how to let himself be taken, claimed.

But she is no brute, no, and is determined to take him with more love than anyone has ever done before. So she listens, watches, feels his reactions and adjusts her touches accordingly. Slowly, she rocks the toy deeper inside him until it hits a dead end and he gasps, winces. The wrong angle, she realises and loosens her grip, letting him guide her hand. He tilts the toy upwards a little and she follows his stroke, lets the toy follow the curve inside his body.

"I'm sorry," she whispers against his cock, now only half-hard from discomfort. 

"Don't be." He caresses her head as it rests upon his hip, his other hand shaking as again, he holds the toy inside of himself and wills himself to open. "Keep doing that," he smiles, his fingertips brushing softly where her lips touch his cock. 

With the sweetest of kisses and the wettest of sucks she obeys, gladly, marvelling as his hips loosen and the toy starts to slide in and out of him with ease. He groans deep in his chest, moving his hand over hers a little faster, his cock beginning to fill out in her mouth again. Little by little, a lascivious smile spreads upon his lips, his eyelids heavy with lust as he rocks into her mouth and onto her hand. The libertine in him has awakened and greedily, he devours the sight and feel of her sucking his cock, of the slick jade stretching, pleasuring his arse.

He hisses in delight, his fingertips sliding to her wrist, giving her full control of the toy. "You play the ravisher, my love." 

She chuckles around his cock, then pulls back for breath. "Are you sure?" she murmurs before swallowing him down again, looking up at him with a wicked gleam in her eyes. She dares pull the toy out almost completely, then pushes it back inside with a twist, and oh, how he cries out, how his cock _drips_ into her mouth.

He lets out a purring laugh and rolls his hips. "That feels wonderful."

"Shall I do it again?" Without waiting for an answer, she repeats the motion, this time with slightly more force and is rewarded with a long, vibrating moan from him, his head writhing upon the pillows. 

"More," he growls, husky in his need, and she gives him more, more, repeating the exact same movement inside of him until his breathing quickens, until his cock drips salt-sweet onto her tongue once again. She has to lean over him to better adore him, to better taste and inhale his pleasure, to savour the glorious sight of her beloved undone. "You look beautiful, Jaffar."

He strokes his cock with his hand, gesturing for her to move the toy faster inside of him with the other. She picks up the speed, truly fucking him now, so that he howls and rocks back upon the bed, pressed into it by her thrusts. He watches her hand, watches himself fucked, then lifts his eyes to her face again, whimpering in ecstasy, in disbelief. He scrabbles for her free hand and clasps her fingers feverishly. "What are you doing to me?" he whispers. 

"Taking you, my sweet Jaffar." And her eyes are nothing but love, her voice nothing but love, the arc of her wrist nothing but love.

He lifts his head up for a kiss. "I love you. I love you so much, oh--" he grinds his forehead against hers, breathing into her mouth, quivering all over. His eyes are brimming with tears, and she kisses him back with all the love in her heart, never stopping the movements of her hand. "Shh, Jaffar. I return your love a thousandfold; know that."

"Never did I--never did I imagine--" a dry sob chokes in his throat. "First you were a virgin, then a harlot, then a youth, and now--"

"A husband?" she whispers fondly, rolling the toy so deep inside of him he quivers once more.

"Yes," he says, tears drawing streaks of kohl down his cheeks, temples, now. "My everything," he whispers as if in sudden realisation, "Everything," and he buries his face in her hair, weeping openly in delight.

"Then let me see you come," she nuzzles sweetly onto his lips, "Wife."

And at her words, he does, kissing her, sobbing into her mouth, coming over and around her cock, spraying her arm and his belly with his come. Through the salt of his tears, she kisses him, kisses him and never stops moving inside of him, loving him like he needs, deserves to be loved. Slowly, slowly she keeps on taking him until the last of his tremors ebb away, until his hand slows upon his cock, until he cries his last upon her bruised, swollen lips. Her sweet Jaffar, her boy, her beast, her everything. 

As she is his. As his hand slides off hers, she lets the toy slip out of him, then replaces it with her fingers. He whimpers against her cheek as she feels his soft loose wetness, marvels at the amazing heat inside of him, the way he slowly closes around her fingers; thus, she adores his conquered body as he had adored hers.

"My king," he whispers as he takes her hands and wraps them around his neck, as he pulls her to lie down on top of him once more, sinking his sighs into her soft warmth. He smiles, lets his arms fall onto the bed, lets himself rest underneath her weight in utter contentment. "And so, gazelle takes cheetah; the hunter is captured by the game." He nuzzles her mouth. "To think that but a few days ago, I thought it not possible for a man to love a woman more than I love you. And yet, today, I do."

"And I, too, had thought I had seen all of you, and look at you now. I have yet another Jaffar in my arms, sweeter than all the rest." She brushes his lips with hers, then rests her head on his shoulder with a languid groan of delight. "If you grow any sweeter, you will become all honey and melt away, and I would not want that."

"Oh, don't think the beast is vanquished, my love." He smacks her buttock, making her yelp and wriggle in delight. "He is but biding his time." He squeezes her buttocks with his hand, possessive, smirking against her ear. "And he's already thinking of ways in which to exact his revenge." 

"I'm looking forward to it."

"Of course you are." He smacks her buttocks again. "But for now, even harlots need to rest. Both of us. Tomorrow I shall show you the _other_ gifts I received from the delegates."

Her eyes fly wide, but before she can say anything, he tickles her again and wrestles her down onto the bed, sending her giggling and howling. He only relents when she wrestles him back, then pulls her back into his arms, holding her tight. 

"I love you," she whispers against his chest and hugs him back. "And I will never grow tired of saying that."

He kisses her hair. "Good. Because none of your Jaffars will ever grow tired of loving you, either," he whispers and draws the bedcovers over them both. 

***  
END  
***

**Author's Note:**

> Extensive annotations (historical, etc.) for this series and my other medieval Persian fics can be found [here.](http://snowgrouse.livejournal.com/2165564.html)


End file.
